


Bliss

by serpensortiaqueer



Series: Grace & Diego | Finding comfort [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Breastfeeding, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Incest, Mommy Issues, Non-Sexual Age Play, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nursing, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 06:41:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18115376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpensortiaqueer/pseuds/serpensortiaqueer
Summary: He does wake up very occasionally. Firstly to Allison, perched beside him with a bottle of Gatorade and a straw, patient and parental as she coaxes him to sip from it.For the electrolytes.The next time, it’s Klaus who’s joined him. Practically quiet for once, and doing wonderful things with his inky hands— kneading Diego’s pressure points and massaging away the relentless pain in each and every one of his numerous muscles. He does Diego’s temples too, rubbing neat little circles with his thumbs, and then kisses the bridge of his nose and sashays away with a wink. Diego appreciates them both, even if he lacks the energy to tell them so, but his favourite to wake up to — surprise, surprise— is Mom.





	Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a [prompt](https://umbrellakink.dreamwidth.org/284.html?thread=31516#cmt31516) over at the Umbrella Academy [kink meme](https://umbrellakink.dreamwidth.org/). This is the first piece of fanfiction I've finished in over _five_ years, and is possibly an unexpected place to begin again, but here we are.
> 
> The age play isn't explicit but you could definitely read it that way if you were so inclined. The breastfeeding is non-sexual, but does involve two adults. If that doesn't sound like your cup of tea, please be aware before going any further.

Diego doesn’t sicken for things very often. Truth told, he doesn’t let himself— isn’t it far more logical to look after his body before anything more than a twinging headache (kicked into submission with a couple of Tylenol and a green smoothie from the hippy place a few blocks from the gym) gets its germ-ridden claws into it? Really, it’s not as though they’re awfully difficult precautions to take: at least five fresh fruit and vegetables a day coupled with a commendable level of fitness. Diego’s totally on top of things. Diego’s got the upper hand. Diego Hargreeves, knife curving vigilante of the night, scoffs at the common cold, the feeble stomach bug.

Until, well. He doesn’t, at all, because he’s been too zoned in on protecting everyone but himself to realise that it’s been nearly a week of hastily thrown-back pain pills and grim Kermit-hued kale sludge and his headache is only thumping harder behind his eyes. And that the smoothies are vaulting back up as soon as he’s swallowing them down, tasting even worse half-digested. There he goes, control all but lost— careering headfirst into a brick wall of aching joints and a cotton-ball stuffed skull. He wakes up one week in feeling as though he’s gone twelve rounds in the ring with someone of Luther’s size and Five’s intellect; bulky but fiendishly goddamn quick.

Laughably, it’s water he can’t keep down next. There’s a searing pain when it hits his innards and a pathetic spluttered dribble back into the sink. Really? He has to laugh, except laughing makes him dizzy, and he almost sends himself tumbling down the Academy staircase, doing a surprisingly strong impression of gangly teenage Klaus in Grace’s patent pumps. Death feels sorry for him. Death is a bro and calls for him, but annoyingly, Luther is passing and manhandles the back of his undershirt just in time.

Afterwards, Diego relents into bed with only a token mumble of frustration. Horizontal by choice and cushioned by a mattress is preferable to a becoming disjointed heap on hardwood, to be fair. He is a shell of his former self, he may as well sleep until he’s unaware of it.

He’s there, in bed, for days, slipping between either comatose or groggy and groaning as his body drains his energy reserves to try and heal itself.

He does wake up very occasionally. Firstly to Allison, perched beside him with a bottle of Gatorade and a straw, patient and parental as she coaxes him to sip from it. _For the electrolytes._ The next time, it’s Klaus who’s joined him. Practically quiet for once, and doing wonderful things with his inky hands— kneading Diego’s pressure points and massaging away the relentless pain in each and every one of his numerous muscles. He does Diego’s temples too, rubbing neat little circles with his thumbs, and then kisses the bridge of his nose and sashays away with a wink. Diego appreciates them both, even if he lacks the energy to tell them so, but his favourite to wake up to — surprise, surprise— is Mom.

Lovely, mild-mannered Mom, haloed by the slither of sunlight sneaking in from his drawn curtains. Her eyes so kind and her touch feather-soft as she regularly re-takes his temperature and freshens the damp washcloth laid across his brow. Just like when he was a little boy and she was always on-hand. Prepared. Stocked well with patience and remedies to try, despite Dad’s constant cajoling that it was _mind over matter_ and more training that would sort him right out. Even grown as he is, sickly Diego becomes needy for her, tries to wake up especially for each one of her visits. He whimpers when she smooths the cloth, so that she’ll _shush_ him, and reaches for the hem of her skirt as she stands to leave again, grasping at it weakly.

“M-m-mom?” He whispers, closing his eyes against the burst of embarrassment, “A f-few more m-minutes?”

Each time he asks, she stays. She even sings some of the lullabies he’d needed to hear once upon a time, to settle at bedtime.

One afternoon, she appears with a steaming bowl of the tomato soup he’d loved back then, too. Five fish-shaped crackers floating on the top. She sets it on his bedside table and plumps his pillows to help him sit, stays with him as he slowly spoons it into his mouth. He sighs deeply around every mouthful. It’s tasty and familiar, and he’s starving. Mom is thrilled by his eagerness to eat, beaming in response.

Mom is also flash of blue quick when it all comes back up again— immediately back in front of Diego with his wastepaper basket as he curls in on himself with no other choice than to let himself be sick. Hot tears stream down his cheeks as he balks at the last of it, partly from the frustration of being so useless when he’s usually so self-assured, but also thanks to the guilt of wasting the dinner his Mom had put such care into preparing. Grace has no such qualms. Her only aim is to solve her son’s despair, and if the soup was not the answer, she’d do what she’d been made to and find out what was.

“Come here, my little Diego,” She says and her arms open wide for him. He is not little at all anymore, but sick as he is feels shrunken in on himself. Yes, he is small and timid and so thankful to be able to rest against Grace and inhale her scent. It’s never changed, and he can pick out each note— lavender talc and starch, vanilla extract, fresh fruit tarts. Against her collar bone, he sniffs up his silly tears and lets himself be babied. Smiling again, Grace guides him closer and begins to rock ever so slightly, along to the song she’s humming. Her fingers are cool as they stroke against the buzzed hairs at the nape of Diego’s neck. She knows just the right spot, and he feels the tension he’d been stiff with melt out beneath him.

Grace settles him there, and then, without preamble, starts popping open the pearly buttons of her blouse. Close as he is to her, Diego’s damp eyes are too unfocused to see properly, but he watches regardless. Her nimble fingers, still with her humming above him. He makes out the blur of the lace of her bra as it’s revealed, and then the hand that had done the unbuttoning coming to cup it. The other is still on the bristles of his hair, and she uses it to guide him even closer until the tip of his nose touches the swell of her breast.

He doesn’t understand, until she speaks again, “Your tummy must be so empty, Diego and as I’m sure you know, you need to keep your energy levels right up in order to get better. I’m sorry my soup was too heavy, but this should be nice and gentle for you.”

“M-m-mom?”

“Mommy’s milk is like special medicine. Let me help you. Close your eyes for me now, and latch on. There we go, nice and settled.”

Amongst the other Academy kids (adults, now, mostly) it was no secret that Diego had always, and would always, trust their Mom implicitly. Though she was designed by a man with no heart, for him, her own was a blooming rose— with an untold capacity for giving. She’d taught him how to tie his shoes at six and then buckle his harness at thirteen, safely sharpen and then sheath his blades; she eased him patiently through his stutter, painting the pictures he needed to see in his mind and bandaged endless injuries with salve and gauze and kisses. She’d put him to bed with lullabies and added goldfish to his soup. Diego trusted their Mom to fix anything, and so desperate is he to feel whole again, that he gives in to her unexpected suggestion with barely any hesitation, rooting against her breast as she frees it from the cup of her bra.

Nothing happens at first. His lips are parted around her nipple, and he suckles, but it’s not quite right. Still, Grace’s patience doesn’t wane. She just brushes her fingers against the shell of his hear and murmurs further instruction, how he has to _take in just a little more, there we go, that’s right yes, and curl your tongue underneath, honey_. She helps with her hand too, squeezing slightly at herself, and soon enough Diego settles into a needy little rhythm. Actually tastes her milk. It’s pleasant, he finds, and nuzzles in again, hopeful for more.

Around them, the house is at peace. So quiet that all the pair can hear are the sweet sucking sounds Diego makes, and the snuffles of his breath alongside them. It’s a lull of calm Diego can’t remember feeling in what must be decades and the milk is so warm and sweet, causing no pangs of pain when he swallows it down to his poor empty stomach. _Bliss_ , he decides, distantly, and burrows closer still to his Mom and her tender touch and taste. Her humming is still there too, and it lays over him like a gauzy blanket. He braves a glance up at her from her chest, and she’s just smiling pleasantly. There’s no hint of judgement there, no inkling that she thinks this at all bizarre behaviour from her adult son. Diego should think that about himself, but his illness has stolen most of his capacity for introspection. All he can really do is focus in on is his one beloved parent and how safe he feels in her arms. Tucked against her breast, because she still knows how to nourish him. He needs her, always, and he hopes he conveys that in how reaches out to play idly with the hem of her sleeve. With his eyes squeezing closed, he tries to commit the moment to memory.

Once he’s finished feeding from that what’s there, Grace eases him off of her breast and gently and taps his chin, just below his full bottom lip. When he peeks up to meet her gaze again, she fixes him with an expression of pure affection. In turn, he blinks up at her sleepily and lets out a sigh that’s one of contentment and not absolute frustration for the first time in a week.

“That seems to have done the job, doesn’t it?” Grace says, her buttons already done up almost the top. Diego admires her efficiency, can’t wait to find his own again, “We’ll see how you feel in a little while, and if you’re hungry again you can have some more?”

Diego just nods, despite himself. He’ll second guess this at a later date, but he can put that off for now, can’t he?

“Great, darling. Now I have dishes to wash and glitter to vacuum from Klaus’ bedroom floor, but I’ll be sure to check in on you once my chores are done. Why don’t you sleep again now? Let Mommy’s medicine work its magic?”

“Yes Mom, thank you,” Diego murmurs, barely managing anything above a whisper but being careful to lace his words with sincerity.

Satisfied that he’s at least doing well enough not to stutter, Grace adjusts her son’s pillows again, this time so that he can snuggle down into them, and tucks his comforter up over his broad shoulders once he’s slithered back down. His fever is still spiking, but it’s punctuated with shivers, too. Someone will check in on him and shuck it back down if he overheats, she knows— probably Allison, if not her.

“There we go then, night night Di,” She whispers, rubbing a hand between his shoulder blades and waiting to leave until his breathing settles right down and she’s sure he’s heading for the peace of sweet, milky dreams.


End file.
